good afternoon, all washed, relaxing

listen to the music come from underground
and the sound of it coursing through lead
bullets in a bible you once flipped through
though you always swore that you read
wrought with indecision and brimming with
ideas for a scriptured hit
from a friend you won’t ever see again
though you both swear you don’t give a shit

help me out
help me down from the soapbox
i am never preaching, still
there’s more i could say
for the ones who swayed
between being what they want or willed
out of a choir, singing
now on the ropes and swinging

tell me a secret; whisper soft and sigh
with a feeling of a want in airs
clean your mind of a distance, finding
close to be a whom or where
clinging to fires, burning clean and stark
through the darkness of a cavern, now lit
with a sharp reminder flames will strain
your eyes and your unsharpened wit

help me out
help the crowds return
to homes built brick by brick
and swear you don’t give a shit about it
living on the streets
relying on the kindness of strangers, fleeting

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